mine {h.s.} | {b3}

CHAPTER NINETEEN

— CHAPTER NINETEEN —

december, year two.

I can't prove anything. I can't prove anything and I think that is the worst part.

Naturally, Thanksgiving went to shit after Will came around, not that anyone would have been able to tell. Harry was still a fantastic cook, I was a gracious hostess, and Edie captured the hearts of everyone who saw her. Fitzy and Ruth made it back with Zana in tow and tantrum behind her. TJ's tail was hung between his legs. I never asked what Ruth said to him, but I know it made him reconsider the way that he spoke to her. Heidi was radiant and bright. Amaya brought a great bottle of wine. Conversation was easy all night long and everyone had a good time.

Of course, when everyone left that was when things fell apart. I was doing the dishes with Harry while Fitzy laid out on the counter, ranting about this, that, and the other thing when Edie started crying. Fitzy popped up and offered to help out—he knew that he wasn't being helpful with all of his complaining and he wanted to do something useful. Usually, I would have appreciated that level of enthusiasm. After all, raising a child and running a household takes a village, I've come to learn. But, on Thanksgiving, I would have rather died. As soon as Fitzy left, Harry and were left alone I alone for the first time since his revelation: You still love him.

"Harry," I tried to say, fighting to keep my voice level and the panic out of it. It was an active battle, leaving the panic on the inside instead of letting it seep out. There's something horrifying in your husband assuming that you have feelings for your ex-husband. The words are a lie and, honestly, it bothers me that he could have even thought that there would ever be a part of me that still loves Will in the same way that I love him. Harry is good to me in ways that Will never was.

"Am I wrong?" He asked me, refusing to look at me. Instead his gaze remained locked on the food that he was packing away before dumping the dishes into the sink where I was washing them. Everything about him was mechanical and strange. It was such a stark contrast to the cuddly, affectionate husband that I've always loved.

Inside my chest I could feel the way that my heart was splitting but I said nothing of it because somehow, that hurt worse. It hurt worse letting him know that I was hurting—that, in some backhanded way, he was hurting me—because I knew that he was hurting, too. His hurt was no reason to hide my own, but responsibility and guilt mixed together create a funny thing. "Of course you're wrong—" I tried to say, but even I could hear the strangled lie in my words.

"Funny," he mused, shaking his head and dumping the last dish in the sink with me. "I don't really believe the words coming out of your mouth either."

With that, he left. "Harry!" I called after him, loud enough that he could hear me but quiet enough that the sound of our fight wouldn't carry louder than this room. I didn't want anyone else to know what had happened.

"What?" He turned around, hovering in the entryway to the kitchen. Hope lingered in his eyes and I wanted nothing more than to melt into his arms.

But I kept my distance. Instead I forced my hands to continue scrubbing at the dishes. At all costs, I averted my eye contact because it felt easier than having to look him in the eyes. "Please don't tell anyone." All of the air sucked out of my lungs, disbelief that I had said the words in the first place pressing a huge weight on my chest instead of relieving the one that was there.

Bitter laughter broke from his lips. "Don't tell anyone that you love him, or that he's here?" He shook his head once, turning his back on me without confirmation. Just as I could feel the tears welling in my eyes, his voice cut through once more from far away. He hadn't come back for me. For the first time in six years, he left me there alone. "Don't worry, Gracie. Your secrets are safe with me. As always." From the caustic tone to the words, both he and I were very aware of the fact that this is nothing like our always.